


The Junkie and the Doctor

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Johnlock - Freeform, Other, POV John Watson, Parent!lock, Parentlock, Post-TFP, Post-The Final Problem, omigod so much fucking fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-05-21
Packaged: 2018-09-18 10:46:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 10,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9381155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: A fic inspired by the ending of "The Final Problem" that tells the story of John and Sherlock's complicated relationship after the events of series 4. Explores John's lingering feelings for Mary, and Sherlock's (s/t?)exting relationship with Irene Adler. Eventual Johnlock, though. Of COURSE eventual Johnlock.





	1. CHAPTER ONE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick note on "The Final Problem":  
> All the creators show us at the end of this episode is two men, living together, solving cases together, and raising a child together. That, to me, means that Johnlock is canon. I understand that a TON of TJLC-ers got upset after Johnlock was not *explicitly* confirmed, but I think it's worth noting that they appear to be spending the rest of their lives together, and they appear to be incredibly happy. I mean, that child is technically going to grow up in a home with two fathers. And we know from the blogs that John thinks having a romantic partner IS NOT compatible with being with Sherlock. So. Johnlock IS canon. This is my ode to their transition from Something More than Friends to Something Romantic. :) <3 
> 
> I just want my babies to be happy!!

John absentmindedly stroked Rosie’s hair as Sherlock paced up and down the room, wearing his camel-colored dressing gown. “Did you see the marks around the neck, John? Strangulation. Definitely. The question is what weapon would someone like Lady Ryeland use? She would want it to be elegant, simple, yet still unmistakably  _ her.  _ Murderers are always conceited,” he said, his words ringing throughout the flat. John looked down at Rosie slumbering peacefully against his sweater. All while Sherlock spoke of  _ strangulation _ .

There was a time when he thought he would never be happy. There was a more recent time when he thought he was the unluckiest man alive. But now. He looked up at the dark-haired man striding back and forth, walking so fast that he was stirring up a draft. 

Now he was doing okay.

“We’d better be off. It’s almost eleven.” John put Rosie gently into her stroller and tucked a blanket under her chin. Sherlock looked up from his steepled fingers. “You’re not leaving?” There was a note of the old friendship in his voice, something John hadn’t heard from him in a very long time. He gave the detective a reassuring smile. “We’ll be back. But Rosie needs to be sleeping in the same place every night. Last time cannot happen again.” Sherlock walked over to both of them. “What if she  _ was  _ sleeping in the same place every night. What if that place…” Sherlock gestured vaguely at the flat, “was  _ here. _ ” John staggered back a few paces, amazed at what Sherlock was suggesting. “You want us to move in with you? You want Rosie to sleep above a chemistry lab?” He shot a dubious look at the kitchen where substances bubbled and congealed in glass vials. “Yes.” Affectionately, Sherlock laid a hand on Rosie’s blonde curls. His voice became soft, his words open-ended, the barest questioning note hidden in his gravelly baritone. “Of course.”

This was a new development. Never in the past had Sherlock attempted to communicate things like this in a normal human way. Ordinarily, John would have expected some sort of bizarre game. Perhaps a kidnapping? He realized with a little start that he had been kidnapped  _ far more  _ than anyone he had ever met.  _ No. Kidnapping is  _ not  _ a normal thing _ , John thought, mentally kicking himself. Just another mindset he could thank Sherlock for. “Listen, it’s not that I don’t want to...you know...but I can’t. Not right now. She’s so young. How is this,” John’s breath hitched, “healthy for her?” A beautiful, tender smile broke over Sherlock’s face as he answered: “You’re the doctor.” They were too close now, far too close for comfort. So close that John could see every wrinkle in Sherlock’s skin, so close that he could  _ smell  _ him...black coffee, cucumber shampoo, cigarette ash. 

“I don’t know. I have to think about it.” John drew back, widening the gap between them. Things were happening too quickly. Just because they had made it out of Eurus’ hellish experiment alive and well did not mean that everything was just  _ hunky-dory _ . There had to be repercussions, rearrangements, fucking  _ consequences. _ As it dawned on Sherlock that John wasn’t going to change his mind, he also drew back with a sharp intake of breath. “Perfectly alright. I understand.” His lips twitched in what some people might interpret as a smirk but what John knew was definitely a frown. John slung the diaper bag across his shoulders. “I’ll see you tomorrow, alright?” 

Before he walked out the door, he looked around 221B. The desks, pushed together in between the two windows. The cluttered bookshelves, overflowing with a dusty collection of novels and case portfolios. The yellow smiley face. The chairs. The crackling fireplace. But most importantly, Sherlock, anxious, lean, prone to conceit and narcissism and explosions and drama. He nodded in Sherlock’s direction and left.

Once John was back in his own home, he decided that he had been completely unreasonable. What was left for him there, in that house? Rosie had only lived there for a year, maybe a little more. What was the harm in a change of scenery? Sherlock’s cold green eyes flashed through his mind and he struggled to control the wants and desires pushing to the forefront of his thoughts. But only for now. Just for now.

After putting Rosie down, he wandered through the hallways, once made brilliant by Mary’s laugh and loving smile. He stood in the kitchen and opened up the cupboard and took down the mug that still had Mary’s lipstick stain on the rim. He went up to the bedroom and pulled back all the blankets and touched the groove where Mary’s body had once lain. He walked to the nursery and stared down at Rosie and noticed the way that her nose looked a bit like  _ hers.  _ And he started to cry. Not the whimpering sobbing that Sherlock had witnessed, nor the hysteric cries he had uttered in the aquarium, but gentle tears. Remembrance tears. He would always love her, would always  _ want  _ her, but he didn’t always have to mourn her. Everything was going to be fine, eventually. He had taken hits in the past. 

If there was one thing John knew, it was loss...and how to soldier through it. 

That night he fell asleep resolved to visit Sherlock first thing the next morning and tell him that he wanted to live with him.


	2. CHAPTER TWO

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock helps out with Rosie, Rosie and John move in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments give me life! (Please let me know if there's anything you think that's OOC!)

“Fine. Just don’t let that one get into the refrigerator, I have a couple of body parts in there that are probably not suitable for the eyes of an infant.” All the warmth of the previous night had vanished and Sherlock had gone back to being, well, _Sherlock._ But John knew that underneath all the sarcasm, Sherlock was secretly pleased. As if on cue, Rosie gave a sudden bark of laughter, and began throwing her cereal out of the cup. Sherlock’s eyebrows arched and he hid his face with a book. Life on the new and (not necessarily) improved Baker Street was definitely going to be interesting.

Within the next week, John had completely moved Rosie in. Much to John’s surprise, Sherlock agreed to move his stuff so that his old room could be made into a nursery. They both figured that it would be best to keep the child downstairs so there was no possibility of her falling. It was very generous on Sherlock’s part and John hummed with pleasure whenever he thought of the kind way that Sherlock had started boxing up his clothes almost immediately (and he had a lot of strange items: John could’ve _sworn_ that he saw a sequined dress somewhere among the piles.) John’s things also started showing up in the flat again. Whole cases of clothing, furniture, kitchenware that the Baker Street kitchen _definitely_ lacked. It started to look like a family lived there. In a sense, a family did.

However, in all this fuss and bustle, there was a still a question that remained largely unanswered. Where would John sleep? He couldn’t sleep in the nursery because the crib took up a big portion of the space, and Rosie would be needing a toddler bed any day now. He couldn’t sleep in the front room because Sherlock often inhabited this space and he might never actually get any sleep. So. That left two possibilities: intrude on Mrs. Hudson’s hospitality and stay in her guest room, or sleep in Sherlock’s new room. Or, rather, his old room. The first possibility seemed to him incredibly rude especially given her willingness to drop everything and take care of Rosie when there was a case. The second possibility made John blush positively crimson and he couldn’t bear to think of sharing a room, nay, sharing a _bed_ with Sherlock for more than moments at a time. But he figured that the subject would have to be broached eventually.

What John discovered _first_ though was that Sherlock was in love with him.

Okay, that’s making the incident more melodramatic than it needs to be.

It was 3 in the morning on a rainy Sunday when Rosie suddenly burst out crying. Her fits had become less frequent overall,  but sometimes she still felt it was necessary to demonstrate her vocal range. John was sleeping on the couch at this point (they _STILL_  hadn’t talked about where he would sleep permanently) so he reluctantly began rubbing the sleep from his eyes. But before he could even begin step into the hallway, a tall figure had swished down the staircase and into the nursery. It couldn’t...could it? Intrigued, and a little afraid, John forced himself off of the couch and in the direction of the wails. And then John saw something that would forever be burned into his brain. The consulting detective, the statue of marble, the impenetrable mind, the machine was holding a baby. _His_ baby. His long black curls were all mussed from sleep and he cradled Rosie with the utmost love and tenderness, swaying back and forth to some intangible melody. John leaned against the doorway. “Stop loitering over there and come in. I don’t know what to do from here.” Sherlock’s voice cut across the blackness. He turned around so that John could see his face, creased with concern. “Did you hear me?” he whispered urgently. Chuckling, John strode across the room and stood a foot away as pride and affection flickered over Sherlock’s features. “She likes you. She’s stopped crying.” The green eyes lit up. Even in the depths of the early morning, their color and size were familiar to John. God, how many nights before Mary had he _dreamed_ about those eyes, swam in them, saw his reflection in them like a mirror. Coming up behind the loving godfather and his child, John put a tentative hand on Sherlock’s shoulder.

Angling himself underneath John’s touch, Sherlock moved in closer. And John felt like he was home. After so many years of searching. This bubble of warmth, right here, _this_ was where he belonged. With the golden-haired child that he was excited to know, with the man that he knew he couldn’t live without. As if reading John’s thoughts, a rumble of quiet laughter issued from somewhere within Sherlock’s chest. And when they put Rosie down again and stepped out of the room and stared at each other as if _understanding_ for the first time John knew that he had found it. Maybe it wasn’t perfect, but it was his.

His family.

And in that moment, he realized what he had known deep down all along. He saw it in Sherlock’s body, the tilt of his chin, the flutter of his black eyelashes. Sherlock was in love. With him. Maybe Sherlock thought John was an idiot, but if there was something John _did_ know it was Sherlock, and Sherlock looked like he was in love. _And now_ , he thought to himself as they stood in the early morning darkness, _you know for certain._


	3. CHAPTER THREE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John answers a text message from Sherlock, Sherlock asks John to sleep with him instead of on the couch (but not /like/ that quite yet!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John is an angsty fool. Tell him you love him, TELLL HIMMM 
> 
> oh that's right I'm writing this

The first time that Sherlock and John slept together was mostly an accident.

After a long note of decoding cryptic files from Mycroft (a case which Sherlock denounced as "asinine" and "painfully obtuse") they had both passed out on Sherlock's bed. It was an enormous surprise to John when he awoke. He had just gotten used to waking up alone, and waking next to a huge human body was rather perturbing. The body rolled over and John gaped, staring at none other than Sherlock Holmes. His heart pounded. He had never actually seen him sleep. Passed out from malnourishment, yes, unconscious due to a severe blow to the back of the head, yes, dead on the sidewalk outside of Bart’s hospital, how could he forget? But sleeping? Regular, human, sleeping? Never. John squinted as to get a better look at this curious phenomenon. For one thing, Sherlock was a scowler. His mouth was twisted in a severe frown, the same kind of unhappy expression he wore when he was in one of his moods. But while his lips seemed to echo his mind, his brow echoed his heart. There was a softness about his forehead that suggested easier, brighter days, somewhere deep in the past. John briefly thought about their first time meeting. He remembered going out to Chinese food with him for the first time. He remembered, he remembered...what he wouldn’t give to have those times back. Not that he regretted marrying Mary. Somewhere in his soul, John knew that he really had been in love with her. That he was still in love with her. While every second of their marriage hadn’t been paradise, they _had_ been in love. He twisted the wedding band still on his finger, recalling to mind Sherlock’s best man speech. What a wedding.

Biting the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing out loud, his eyes roved back over to Sherlock’s sleeping form. His back rose and fell as he sighed into his pillow. John wondered if Sherlock dreamed or if he only saw chemical compound and calculation, computations shifting like sand through his mind. Suddenly, a moan sounded throughout the room, and his eyes went instantly to the iPhone tucked inside of Sherlock’s robe pocket. Being careful not to shake the bed too much, he stumbled over to the door and grabbed it, forgetting that Sherlock would know he had looked at it within a heartbeat. Four words. _What are you doing?_ Should he?

No. He probably shouldn’t.

He put the phone back in the robe and stepped two paces back. And then two paces forward. Again, the phone moaned, the erotic sound sending a tingle of distrust and dislike down John’s spine. “The Woman,” John scoffed internally. Giving himself over to curiosity, John cursed under his breath and drew the phone once more from the pocket. Sherlock had never respected his stuff. _Still_ didn’t respect his stuff. This was perfectly fine. Alright, maybe a little dickish, but Sherlock had said he didn’t want to talk to her…

A second text. _Are you busy?_ A crop of irrational thoughts popped into John’s head. _Sherlock probably_ always _texts back_ , _that’s why she’s pestering him so much_ .... _What does she even_ want _with Sherlock? Well_ , John thought somewhat irritably, _I do know the answer to_  that question.

He pressed on the text bubble and typed back _Are you?_ His pulse fluttered. _Oh this is so wrong._ A couple seconds elapsed before another sigh filled the silence. _Incredibly, but I made time for you. Ready to play?_ Oh fucking hell. John clasped the phone to his chest and tried to slow his breathing. It probably wasn’t a healthy sign that he was getting so worked up about a couple of text messages. On second thought, it probably wasn’t healthy that he was _snooping through Sherlock’s phone_. Too late to turn back now. _I suppose_ , John wrote. He hit send with his eyes closed. Fucking hell. The wait until the next text message was excruciating. Again, the moan. But this time it was an _image. Shit, not good, so very, very not good…._ he refrained from opening it and stood there in the bedroom, fingers sweating, wondering what he should do. Sherlock would probably wake up any second now. And then, just to add to his torture, another moan. Cracking one eye open, John lifted the phone back up into view. Relief flooded his whole body as he read _Just kidding. Hello John. You and Sherlock finally shagging, then?_ With a weak laugh, John locked the phone and slid it back into the pocket. He looked over at Sherlock. He already knew the argument was not going to be fun.

But there was no argument.

Sherlock must have known that he had texted Irene. He _must have._ Yet Sherlock said nothing. 

That night, as he prepared to sleep on the couch again, Sherlock stopped him. He gripped John’s arm tightly and looked him dead in the eye. “Not there.” John trembled as Sherlock dragged him up the stairs and into his new room. “John. There is no reason for you to sleep on the couch when there is a perfectly fine bed right here. Don’t be juvenile about this.” John fidgeted uncomfortably. “Well...won’t people _talk_ ?” he wondered aloud.

 _Don’t you want them to?_ a quiet voice said in his head.

Sherlock scoffed. “As I’ve said: they do little else. Let’s not be children.”

One of the assets of Sherlock’s personality (which John had only _just_ started to understand) was his lack of respect for personal space. He had a habit of standing unreasonably close to John when they were talking. So much so that John was constantly assaulted with the pure physicality of him. Part of John questioned whether Sherlock had discovered that this technique made people more likely to do his bidding. Another part of John knew that Sherlock was starved for human contact. “Alright. If you’re _sure._ " Sherlock scoffed as we walked toward the bathroom to pull on his pajamas. “Of course I’m sure.”


	4. CHAPTER FOUR

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock wake up together...in more ways than one! A lil parent!lock too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took so long to come out! I am positively SHITTY at keeping a writing schedule, but I hope you all enjoy it!!
> 
> (Also: the note John wrote Sherlock as well as the brutal beating that Sherlock took will be addressed...i recognize that a lot of people see this as abusive behavior, and I have some thoughts on the matter that I've been meaning to flesh out)
> 
> Comment and let me know if you see anything OOC! (I like to be as true to the characters as possible!)

Morning. Sherlock cracked open an eye and saw a slice of blue sky between his curtains. He shook himself mentally, getting everything back in order, preparing his mind palace for the day’s activities. But what was that weight on his chest? Still a little foggy from sleep, he tilted his chin down to see--John. Sleeping on top of him. As peacefully as a baby. _More_ peacefully than a baby actually. Rosie had been quite fussy lately. Sherlock felt his pulse quicken erratically as he set his head back down on the pillow. He felt one of his arms was numb. Oh. That was because John’s shoulder was on it.

Well then.

There was nothing in Sherlock's mind palace that had ever prepared him for this moment. Sure, John and him had had casual contact before, but that had always felt necessary. Significant. This was lazy, haphazard, sloppy on both ends. This had not been planned. Perhaps that is what it made it so sweet.

Sherlock put his other hand tentatively on John’s back, feeling him inhale and exhale, the perfect picture of silence and tranquility. Outside, the London street was coming to life, horns and sirens shrieking across the city. Mrs. Hudson’s vacuum cleaner turned on and Sherlock imagined her going to the front of her kitchen then taking another turn across the tiles. Sherlock’s hand slid up John’s broad back and up to his neck, which he sort of remembered from one of their other moments of contact. But for some reason, a reason that Sherlock could not identify, the hand just kept on moving. He began stroking John’s hair, threading the silver through his fingers and thinking back to when it had been faded blonde. The sun rose a little higher in the sky and all of the wrinkles on John’s face were illuminated. 

Sherlock wriggled down a little further as to not disturb the sleeping John and stared at the ceiling, letting the man on top of him dream. All of the millions of thoughts that he had had over the past few years started to slam into him, leaving Sherlock slightly breathless. Eurus’ cold, chilling voice echoed through his head: “Emotional context, Sherlock….every time... _every time_ .” But no. A defiance against his sister’s argument grew within him. Love _was not_ a disadvantage, love _was not_ a weakness. It was one of Sherlock’s only strengths. John shifted slightly in his sleep, his lips slightly parted against Sherlock’s chest. Love and hope coursed through him, stronger than any drug he had ever taken. This man! This ridiculous man! Sherlock knew that he wasn’t as sharp, as _precise_ , as he had been seven years ago but in that moment, in that bed, with John on his chest, he didn’t care. What did it matter--being the cleverest, being the fastest, being the strongest--if John wasn’t there? What did being impressive and smart _matter_ if John was nowhere in the picture?

It didn't.

“Sherlock? Hunh?” John shook his head and awoke, rubbing his eyes. Sherlock’s chest went cold as he sat up. “Oh. Sorry.” He blushed and picked at the sheet, looking anywhere but Sherlock’s eyes. An ache started up in Sherlock’s heart. Would it always be like this? Dancing in circles around the elephant in the room, like they were afraid of being _happy_? Steeling himself for the inevitable backlash, Sherlock put his hand on John’s and shifted closer. He felt curiously exposed without his dress shirt and jacket. Sherlock disliked pajamas because he disliked the view of his bare arms.  Without a layer of cloth or two, his skin was open, bare to the world. Receptive.

“John. Look at me,” he commanded. His heart thumped, louder than the sound of an avalanche of snow on a high mountain. “You know. I know. It’s been seven years.” Sherlock’s lips twitched humorlessly as his voice broke on the word “seven.” He waited patiently for John to say the words that he _had_ said before: on the floor of the restaurant, in his note, every _single_ time he fervently denied that he was gay. Everything node of his being was tuned to a fever pitch and he clasped John’s hand tightly as silence filled the room.

“Yes.” John’s voice startled Sherlock out of his anxiety. “Yes, of course I know. And it _has_ been seven years. Let’s get on with it then, shall we?” With a small smile that shattered Sherlock’s whole world, they touched their foreheads lightly together as the morning sun came up full force and flooded the room with light.

There was a strange bump in the hall and John swung his feet over the side of the bed. “Well, Rosie is up.” Still slightly dazed by what had just transpired, Sherlock got out of bed as well, slipping a midnight blue dressing gown over his pajamas. “Yes. It appears so,” he said. They straggled out of the bedroom, down the stairs and into Rosie’s bedroom, where the one-year old was building an intricate fortress of play bricks that extended from the crib to the door. John passed his hand over his brow and went into the kitchen. “I’ll make some breakfast. What do you want? Eggs?”

“Nothing for me,” Sherlock called back. He never ate on a case. And he had a case. Rosie Watson. Sherlock bent down next to her and watched her movements, already finer and more articulate than other children of the same age. Her eyes were narrowed in concentration as her tiny fingers fumbled with the blocks.

He steepled his fingers and pressed them against his lips.

Astounding.

Her ears were shaped like John's.


	5. CHAPTER FIVE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finally apologizes for beating Sherlock up in the mortuary, and old wounds are examined.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. I am so sorry for being a shitty person and not updating this in forever. 
> 
> So, this is not a "fix-it" chapter or whatever, this is a fucking call-out to the creators of the show for not tying up one of millions of loose ends. Something I hate about Sherlock is that it seems to exist in a sort of vacuum where past events only affect current events WHEN IT'S CONVENIENT FOR THE PLOT OR DRAMATIC EFFECT. In order for a show like Sherlock to be really impactful, it has to show how decisions the characters make CHANGE the future of the show. I will never understand why the creators sacrifice this one, easy-to-follow rule for cleverness, but then again, I will never understand why I spend hours of my life concerned about this at all.
> 
> To anyone who felt the same way, or anyone who is desperately trying to comprehend the clusterfuck that is series 4, I give you the following chapter.
> 
> -PP

John apologized.

Because of course he did. It was awkward to bring up the subject such a very long time after the fact but the guilt and self-hatred had started to overwhelm him. Rosie was carefully tucked in bed. John and Sherlock had been sleeping in the same room for a while. They hadn’t kissed yet, but they talked about it. They talked about a lot of things. Well, John tried to badger Sherlock into answering, more like. The two sat across from each other in the sitting room, Sherlock’s hands sifting through a huge pile of business inquiries. _It always seems to lead back to these two chairs_ , John thought as he gripped the armrests.

The old flannel blanket draped over the headrest tickled the back of his neck.

“Sherlock, I never told you I was sorry. For what happened. That day at the mortuary. And you should know. Something came over me, something that I’ve never experienced before. Just. Losing you. And then losing Mary. It may seem like a long time to you, Sherlock, but I remember it. And it’s not your fault, I don’t want to make it sound like it’s your fault. I never want to see you like that again. I’m so sorry, Sherlock. I am.” He licked his lips nervously. Sherlock stared straight ahead, not saying a word, fingers quivering slightly as he plucked open the top of an envelope.

When he did speak, his voice came out rough and precarious, and he didn’t meet John’s gaze.

“I know. Of course I knew that already. I deserved it, though, didn’t I? On some level. Perhaps not quite the...beating you gave me, but on some level, I had it coming for years.”

John’s heart twisted in regret and he wished that Sherlock could know the pain that he was in, could physically see the guilt and self-hatred eating him up inside. It hadn’t been him on that day in the mortuary, that wasn’t _John_ . “No you didn’t. It was completely my fault. Let me take the blame for this, Sherlock, because that’s the only way _this_ is ever going to work out. I harmed you. I hurt you. I know I did, I remember still the blood coming out of your mouth...the people, pulling me off of you.” He blinked fast in order to quell the sudden urge to cry. “It’s alright,” Sherlock said, voice low and flat. The memory of that day was painful to Sherlock and being reminded of it by _John_ of all people was painful. But necessary. “It’s alright,” he said again, voice a little stronger. “I’ll spend the rest of my life regretting that moment,” John said wistfully. Sherlock looked up, a fragile smile on his lips.

“We both have regrets.”


	6. CHAPTER SIX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock FINALLY kiss. And it's everything they hoped for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, I am in love with Rosie as a part of John and Sherlock's story. She is quite integral to their development as characters, and I really love the way she feels so natural...there is nothing forced about her appearance in the show, or her relationship with Sherlock. I think she DOES have a vital position in bringing them together. She completes their family.
> 
> -PP

It was raining. Harder than it had rained in a long time. The sky was grey and soft, and everything was edged in silver. Sherlock and John stood on a bridge over the Thames, looking into the water as raindrops spattered across their coats. They had forgotten to bring an umbrella. Sherlock turned surreptitiously to watch John’s carefully combed back hair lose its shape. “Damn it. Rain. Spoils all the evidence. Nature does not care about murder,” he mused. He felt his own hair starting to get increasingly curly. The water in the Thames swirled, iridescent oil slicks visible in the dim afternoon light. 

And then Sherlock couldn’t take it anymore. 

The physical sensation of keeping all his feelings closed up so tightly weakened him and his knees buckled as he fell against John, their foreheads knocking lightly together so that Sherlock’s head buzzed. For a moment, the bridge and the Thames and the rain fell away, and Sherlock could hear was the sound of his own breath and John’s heartbeat. Tentatively, questioningly, one of John’s hands came up around Sherlock’s neck and pulled him closer. There was nowhere else to look but John’s eyes, and Sherlock drowned in them, their stormy blue depths forcing all the air out of Sherlock’s chest. Everything felt like it had been leading up to this moment, to this exact space in time when the universe was finally going to start making sense. 

They kissed.

Sherlock wrapped his arms protectively around John and kissed him, kissed him like he had always meant to. It was a simple kiss. It was not overly passionate, or even particularly romantic. The love that Sherlock felt for John, had  _ always  _ felt for John, went beyond affection, it was a survival instinct. As if in response, the rain started coming down harder, pounding onto their backs and soaking them to the bone. Still, they clutched at each other as if they were seeing one another after a very long time. “Now tell me,” John whispered into Sherlock’s mouth, making him shiver, “how long did you know?” Sherlock leaned back momentarily and gave the silver-haired doctor a smile. 

“Forever.”

That day, they did not kiss again. They left the bridge over the Thames, got into a cab, and went home to towel off. John picked Rosie up from school and they all had lunch together. Pasta. Rosie got it in her hair and Sherlock picked at it and complained and John said that he didn’t get enough credit for being a single father raising two babies. Sherlock took two bites after that but he threatened that for dinner he was only going to drink a cup of coffee. John rolled his eyes and Rosie laughed a baby laugh which made John laugh which made Sherlock’s heart ache from happiness. He thought he might die. 

Later that evening when they had tucked Rosie in and they were once again sitting in their chairs, going through mail and potential cases, Sherlock thought he might die from being happier than he ever thought that he deserved to be. 

The next day, there was another kiss, and it was somehow more beautiful than the first. Sherlock and John were hunting for clues through London with Toby, and were abruptly tugged into a floral arrangements shop. It happened mostly by accident. Sherlock was stooping down behind a crate of marigolds and John was interrogating the shop owner (rather fiercely) and suddenly they simultaneously turned back to the other and kissed, right there among tulips and roses and baby’s breath. Sherlock was so shocked and happy that he promptly turned on his heel and headed out of the shop, completely forgetting the purpose of their visit. 

Over time (and not a particularly long time, perhaps a month or two) Sherlock and John grew more used to this kissing. At first, it was all new, and soft, and spectacular, and always left Sherlock a little dizzy, but soon it became nothing more than a common courtesy. Good morning kiss. Good afternoon kiss. Good evening, good night, good getting to know you, good getting to fall in love with you. There is a certain sort of bliss that people feel when they are in love, and Sherlock was getting to experience it for the very first time. It’s like hanging your head out of a window in an old car in a rainstorm on an empty road, and feeling raindrops soak through your hair and tasting the lightning in the air. Maddening, beautiful, delirious. In all of Sherlock’s years of life, he had  _ assumed  _ that the high he got from solving puzzles was the same thing as a chemical high, was the same thing as falling in love. But it wasn’t. It didn’t even come close. Sherlock did not know the English words to articulate what this meant to him. Sherlock did not have any proper language to spell out how John invigorated his world, made it worth living in. Worth fighting for. 

The same went for Rosie. Initially, Sherlock had resolved to tolerate her, nothing more, and nothing less. Not only for John’s sake, but also for the more sobering prospect of Mary’s remembrance. But as time wore on (and again, a reasonably small amount in any ordinary human’s life) he grew to love her as much as he loved John. Her laugh made him laugh and John once caught Sherlock holding Rosie on his hip as he prepared a chemical experiment (which John was not too thrilled about, understandably.) 

Certainly, it should be noted that while life was sweet, it was far from normal.

Lestrade still pounded up the steps every now and again to hand them a file, clients still dropped in at odd hours of the night, and Molly still came around to take care of Rosie every now and again. Mrs. Hudson still berated Sherlock for leaving things all over the flat. 

John still took his coffee black, with no sugar. 

And Sherlock still heaped spoonfuls into his.


	7. CHAPTER SEVEN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A case is solved. Love is solidified. Rosie is cute.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I have been incredibly unfaithful to this story, but I have not forgotten about it! I want you all to know that I really do appreciate every single subscriber and hope to continue adding chapters, though perhaps not at the speed I once was. Please let me know what you thought of this chapter! Thank you for continuing to read this crazy, crazy fic. 
> 
> \- Pamina
> 
> P.S. EXPECT MORE UPDATES SOON! I am determined not to disappear on you.

There was a loud _BANG_ and John craned his neck around the corner to get a better look at their aggressor. Without missing a beat, he drew his gun from his coat and fired in the direction of the noise. Sherlock was still reading over the file they had managed to procure. “Fascinating. Incredibly fascinating.” “Christ, Sherlock-” five more shots sounded in the alleyway. John flattened himself against the wall and gripped the gun to his chest, the metal heating up his skin through his shirt. “Is this really the time?” 

Two more shots and then footsteps, getting closer and closer--and WHAM, Sherlock had straightened out of his crouching position and socked the man in the face. John breathed a deep sigh of relief and pointed the gun in the thief's direction. “Now come quietly, if you don’t mind.” The man shook off his hood and stood up. “Who the fuck are you two?” Sirens sounded nearby. Shuffling feet. Slammed car doors. In a couple of minutes, Lestrade had arrived, looking tired and rumpled. His eyes lowered to the gun in John’s hand. “Well, shit.”

“Are you really sure this is the right file?” Lestrade said dubiously, scratching his head. The three of them watched as another officer pushed the criminal into a car. Sherlock nodded. “Of course. We wouldn’t have gone through such considerable lengths if I hadn’t been _quite_ sure.” Lestrade squinted. “It’s true. We hiked for four days to retrieve this information. It was horrible. The outdoors did a number on my complexion.” He smiled. “Good. I’m glad we could clear this whole thing up. How are you two doing? We rarely see either of you around Scotland Yard anymore.” John fidgeted uncomfortably, suddenly confused. He loved Sherlock. But he didn’t _think_ he was gay...bisexual, maybe? And what was Sherlock? Gay? Bi, like him? The words to describe their situation escaped him, and he decided to let Sherlock answer the question. “We’re doing fine. We have a child, Lestrade.” The use of the pronoun “we” shocked everyone except for Sherlock. Lestrade and John stared at him, mouths agape, eyes wide. Clearing his throat, Lestrade put his hands in his pockets and stared pointedly at a speck of dirt on the ground. “Oh. Yeah, yeah. I understand. That’s...uhhhh...great. Great. I hope Rosie is...um. Good.” Sherlock looked up momentarily from his phone, which he had begun tweeting on during their conversation. “Fine. Healthy. Puts foreign objects in her mouth, constantly questions why she has to attend school, can draw a decent tree with crayons.” Lestrade’s jaw was practically touching the floor. “Well, look whose father of the year.” John was staring at Sherlock with a newfound respect. “He really is.”

With that, John bid Lestrade farewell and gently steered Sherlock towards the main road. Sherlock raised one of his arms for a taxi. “You just said...we. Is Rosie _our_ child, Sherlock?” John said as they slid into the back seat. Sherlock slipped his phone back into his coat pocket and looked at John with a mixture of embarrassment and apology. “Oh. I just said that without thinking. Sorry.” His face softened, the adrenaline from the case seeping out of him in one long rush, his usual seriousness setting in. “Rosie is yours and Mary’s child. I know that. I meant more in the sense that Rosie is with us, living in our house. Our responsibility.” John watched him fumble for the correct words with amusement. “ _Our_ responsibility?” John replied, tapping on the armrest of the taxi. Sherlock’s brow clouded over as he struggled to reason out the response that John wanted. These feelings were difficult for him. Tricky to express.  “Or yours. Entirely. If that’s what you want. What’s the matter? Why do you look like that?” Planting a light kiss on Sherlock’s nose, John shrugged. “I just never thought...remember our first night together? When you first met me? Who would have thought that _this_ would have come from that?”

Rosie was with Mrs. Hudson when they got home. Her little legs swung underneath the table as she scribbled out a bumblebee on construction paper. Mrs. Hudson had her hands around a mug of tea. “Caught him. Lestrade asked after Rosie” John remarked as they shed their coats in the foyer.  She smiled in her secretive, knowing way. “Well, that’s very nice. He’s a nice man.” Sherlock sat down in the third chair at the kitchen table and steepled his fingers, agile mind already itching for another problem, another case to crack. “A little slow, perhaps, but viewed holistically, Grant is not a bad person.” John just rolled his eyes and poured himself a cup of tea. He gave his daughter an affectionate rub on the back and looked down at her drawing. “This is marvelous. Better than in the art galleries.” She beamed up at him, a spot of jam in the corner of her mouth. He wiped it away. “Has Mrs. Hudson been spoiling you?” “Just a cookie or two won’t do the child any harm.” Sherlock kept conspicuously quiet. Everyone in the kitchen knew of his sweet tooth. Occasionally, he wouldn’t rest until he had a slice of lemon cake.

“Come up when you want, Rosie,” John said. He kissed her on the head and thanked Mrs. Hudson. John and Sherlock were both extremely lenient parents. It wasn’t necessarily that they were neglectful, but they never felt the need to set too many parameters for her. She was being raised in such extraordinary circumstances that both of them thought it was silly to pretend otherwise. Besides, Rosie usually wasn’t interested in watching a lot of television. She preferred to sit with a telescope propped on the roof, scanning the stars, or reading picture books about space. Much to Sherlock chagrin, in order to continue answering her persistent questions (Rosie had established that Sherlock was the smart one), he had begun to study astronomy. Whenever John saw Sherlock reading a book about outer space, he didn’t dare laugh. He remembered when Sherlock had refused to acknowledge that the earth went around the sun.

John settled down in his armchair while Sherlock went into the bathroom to wash up. The London sun glazed the rooftops stretching out in the window and he felt a keen sense of satisfaction. Looking around surreptitiously, John went over to the fireplace and poked around the black logs, looking for the Persian slipper. He never saw Sherlock smoking anymore, but whenever he stood near him (or was in bed with him)  Sherlock always _smelled_ like tobacco. Not that John was necessarily complaining. As much as he abhorred the habit, the scent of the smoke on Sherlock’s skin was something he had always been irrationally attracted to. He straightened his back and pretended to be adjusting some of the items on the mantelpiece when Sherlock entered the room. He patted his forearm firmly. “Nicotine patches. Don’t worry.” John wondered if Sherlock had deduced what he had been doing, or whether they had just grown so familiar with one another that Sherlock could just guess. _He doesn’t guess though, does he_? John thought.

The violin was produced. Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, his chin in the rest, hand on the bow. John admired the way his arm went up to hold the instrument so naturally, as if were merely an extension of his own body. Sherlock’s eyes fluttered closed as the sunlight faded, and they were left with only the one lamp on in the corner of the room. John watched. And then the music began. Original, probably, as John instinctively recognized the style--melodramatic, moody, jaunty, sighing. Lovely. Beautiful, as always. The warm, vibrant sound swelled and filled the room, echoing out the through the silence.

People often wanted to know who Sherlock Holmes _really_ was. And before that moment in their flat, John would not have had any good answer. But watching the tall, aquiline figure swaying, gently in the middle of 221B, he finally knew. That was Sherlock Holmes. Not the one that swished his coat like a cloak, or spat out sarcastic quips at the worst possible moments. No, Sherlock Holmes was the melody that stretched, unbroken, from his fingers to the wooden insides of the violin to the walls that had seen so much misery, so much joy, to the little girl downstairs who loved him like a father. He wasn’t an enigma, exactly, in fact, he was more alive than anyone John had ever known. Everything didn’t necessarily center around Sherlock, but Sherlock did respond to everything, similar to the violin that he loved and played so well. Every touch, every change in atmosphere, and Sherlock would flinch, put his hand in the air. And John ached with love and hope and sadness and every possible thing as the light dimmed  and the music permeated his soul and the distant sound of little footsteps on the staircase nearly made him cry out in feeling.


	8. CHAPTER EIGHT

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John get it on, John and Lestrade grab a pint. <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Told you I wouldn't be gone for too long! Please enjoy this special long chapter. Just finished writing it, really excited for everyone to finally read!

 

Lestrade was a rather good-looking man. Similarly to John, he had retained his manful prowess over the years, and even at the supreme age of 53, he still got quite a lot of double-takes at the pub. He sat slumped on a barstool, one hand around a cold glass of something brown and noxious and alcoholic. A timid looking red-headed lady toting a beer bottle approached him. “Hey. I hate places like this.”

“Yeah, well, stay home then,” he said grumpily, downing his glass in one go. Affronted at the negative reception, the lady twisted her nose in the air and disappeared back into the crowd. Good riddance. He felt a familiar hand clap him on the back. “Hullo John,” he said moodily. “Does Sherlock even know you’re here?” Lestrade asked. John shook his head, no. “He doesn’t even think we’re friends.”

“Yeah, I suppose that makes sense. He just sort of thinks everything is about him.” There was a comfortable pause in the conversation. John knew what Lestrade wanted to ask. He was prepared to answer him honestly. “I don’t really know how to put this. But let’s not beat around the bush: you and Sherlock...are...something...right?” Lestrade said. With a bewildered look in his eyes, he pushed his glass forward and ordered two more drinks from the bartender. “I dunno if I would call it that. Well I would. Like, conventionally. We’re just more than friends, I guess would be the way to say it,” John said stiffly. Lestrade ran a hand through his silver hair in an exasperated motion. “Fucking hell. You two have been making eyes at each other for as long as I can remember. You know, we have a wager going on down at Scotland Yard...whether or not you two are shagging. I suppose I should collect my winnings.” “Yeah, I suppose that you should. Were we really that obvious?” John wondered. “Oh, when he stood close to you, you could just feel it.” With a start, Lestrade realized that it might be disrespectful to Mary to talk in such a manner, so he quickly added, “With Mary, too. You guys were clearly in love, everyone knew that. But Sherlock needed you in a way that Mary...didn’t.” A nervous pinch twisted his gut and as soon as the sentence came out of his mouth, Lestrade started to apologize. “Don’t. No. I understand. I am in love with Mary. I’ll always love her. But Sherlock...Sherlock, I agree, needs me. I need him.”

“God, what the hell is that even like?” Lestrade’s curiosity overpowered his manners. “Insane. It’s insane. I don’t know really how else to describe it. I wake up in the morning next to this _man._ This man who has killed people. Pretended to be dead. Tried to kill himself with cocaine and medication. And then he wakes up next to me and picks up Rosie and plays with her. You know…” John hesitated “... you know sometimes I get worried. I think about all those things that used to be in our flat. All of the  recreational substances I would find. And he knew I saw them. And he’s playing with my daughter, probably right now. It should bother me. But it doesn’t. He couldn’t be better.” The television in the corner of the bar blared, the sound and lights harsh and angry. Lestrade was gaping. “I just can’t believe it. You don’t know what he was like before he met you. He was depressed, sarcastic, mean. There was something very _poisonous_ inside of him that he just couldn’t get rid of. I suspected it was his addiction to cocaine and morphine, but I never approached him about it because, well, what good would that do? How do you approach someone like _Sherlock_ about that? _Oy mate, I’m really concerned for you, let me prop you up in front of the telly like your mother. Drugs are bad!_ Of course not. But from the very first day that he met you, he seemed different, somehow. He was determined to live. I think that’s it. He wasn’t just throwing himself at things anymore. There were consequences to be paid. Like with the whole Moriarty thing, when he died. He did that for you, you know. He did that for all for you.”

“Yes. He told me. Sherlock told me. How are you and your wife doing? We never hear about her anymore. Is it finally over, for good?”

“It’s over. She was sleeping around too much, and I wasn’t, so that wasn’t any fun. We have a child, as you know. She wants to meet Rosie. That might be nice. I’m going to see her on the weekends. Dear God, the one thing I hope, above all, is that this doesn’t do anything to her. Separation is difficult,” Lestrade said, head bent over his drink. John took a long swallow from his own. “Yes. It is. We would love to have her over sometime. Imagine that, two little girls running around Baker Street like mad.” Something soft and sweet tugged at Lestrade’s heart and he could feel himself growing increasingly sentimental. John was a good friend and he would be an even better partner to Sherlock. They complemented each other extremely well. If Lestrade was being perfectly honest with himself, he was a little envious. He would love to have a love like theirs.

After a few more drinks, they staggered outside and got into their respective taxis. “Tell Sherlock that there’s a murder inquiry coming his way. I’ll be there tomorrow morning.” The taxi door slammed and John waved goodbye. It was nice to have friends again. To know that there were people who would support him. John had been so foolish to think all his friends from the army would carry over to real life. And, in truth, he was rather glad. He wasn’t like them. He never quite fit in with them. As the London city lights passed over his taxi window, he tried to guess what Rosie and Sherlock would be doing. Lately, she had become interested in books. Sherlock had begun reading _Grey’s Anatomy_ to her. Surprisingly, she didn’t mind.

When he elbowed his way through the door, he was surprised to find that it was only Sherlock in the front room, perusing the daily paper by the fire. “Out with Lestrade, then?” he said, not bothering to lower the paper. “Yep. He’s a good fellow, you know.”

“I get the idea…” He turned a page, the thin leaves rustling in his hands. “I put Rosie to bed,” said Sherlock, with a touch of smugness in his voice. John could hear the smirk on his lips. “Oh? How did that go?”

“Well. We discussed the meniscus between the femur in the tibia in the leg. She’s very keen to learn about fibrocartilage.”

“Sherlock, there’s no need to impress me, you know I’m a certified surgeon, right?”

“I’m not trying to impress you, merely relate--”

“Sherlock. I’m only kidding.”

“Oh.”

John gave him a kiss. Their movements were slow, familiar. Sherlock put his hand lightly on the back of his neck and pulled him down a little closer, his lips cool against John’s own. “Are you going to bed?” he asked, green eyes startlingly wide at such close range. “Yes.”

“I’ll be up to our room momentarily.”


	9. CHAPTER NINE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John have their very first domestic, hurrah! (Sherlock allows Rosie to participate in a case and this pisses John off.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Back again with my crazy kids. My three crazy kids. Comments = love. 
> 
> \- PP
> 
> PS: I feel like this version of Sherlock is becoming too soft. I will certainly return him to dickishness in the next chapter.

Whenever John used to fight with his girlfriends or Mary, the fight was long, emotionally wrought, and physically taxing. Maybe it was John’s inherent nature, or the women that he tended to form romantic connections with, but all of his domestic disagreements seemed to him like never-ending _wars._ John hated to fight. He just didn’t like the feeling of being emotionally estranged. But somehow, he seemed to always end up in a battle. Most of John and Sherlock’s relationship was steady, even, balanced out by years of friendship and months of intimacy. However, John knew that it couldn’t last. As much as he was enamored with Sherlock, there were still things Sherlock did that drove John up the wall. A fight of some kind was sort of inevitable.

It all began with Rosie. Sweet, lovable, oblivious Rosie.

One day, due to a misunderstanding in his office, John was able to get off of work early. Eager to see his partner and his child, he packed up his briefcase practically humming over his good luck. His pleasant mood didn’t last, however, because the scene he came home to filled him with anger. Rosie. Sitting on Sherlock’s lap. While a _client_ related to him the events a sexual assault and a murder. At the sight of her blond head leaned so nonchalantly on Sherlock’s chest, John positively boiled. “Oi!” he shouted as he stormed through the door. “What do you think you’re doing?” Rosie looked quizzically up at her father, who was puffing and snorting like one of the dragons from her picture books. Sherlock’s mouth dropped open a little bit at the suddenness of his voice. The client smiled benignly. “Hello! I just came round to--” John cut him off with a snarl. “Fucking _don’t_. First of all, you can leave. Second of all, _you_ can put Rosie down for a nap because we’re going to have a chat.” When the client looked quizzically at Sherlock for confirmation, John pointed violently to the door. “Kindly get out. Before I make you.” Without another word, the man got up and exited the room.

Sherlock stood up silently, delivered Rosie to the nursery, and came back to sit in his chair. “A truly fascinating case. There are so many aspects of it that strike me as most peculiar. Especially his determination to protect his reputation. Why would he do that? It’s perfectly stupid to--” John cut in, dropping his briefcase the ground. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Me? I was receiving a client and Rosie happened to be up front.”

“Has this happened other times before?”

“Maybe...three or four times, yes…”

“Sherlock!”

“John! I fail to see what is so terribly alarming about a baby listening to a conversation she doesn’t understand.” He blinked his green eyes twice, mouth hammered into a hard, stubborn line. John could feel himself settling into battle mode. So this was it, then. Their first real domestic.

“You can’t do that anymore.”

“And why not?”

“Because it’s wrong, Sherlock. Surely you can grasp that much.”

“She doesn’t understand a word that passes, you know that yourself John. What kind of _doctor_ are you?” Leaning back into his chair, Sherlock rolled his eyes to the ceiling. John noticed there was still a speck of shaving cream on his jawline. “Yeah, I get it. But she’s a child! _Children_ shouldn’t be exposed to things... _like that_. I don’t want her to grow up and be--’

“Like me?” Sherlock said cruelly, a bitter glint in his eyes. He rose, a tower of strength and barely repressed anger, freezing John with his cold gaze. “Wouldn’t want her to learn the word ‘murder’ at such a young age, right?” Redbeard hovered between them like a ghost. John suddenly realized that everything that had happened in Eurus’ hell wasn’t over, that it had never been over, that it was still inside of them like a toxin. He saw her rigidly composed face. Her bedraggled black hair. _Still_ , John reasoned with himself, _responsible parents don’t let their children hear about that stuff. Especially so early on_.

“No.” John’s voice came out soft, a puff of air. He squared his shoulders to match Sherlock’s aggressive stance and tried again. He would not be intimidated by Sherlock, he would not. “No, it’s not about that. Just the _principle_ of it, Sherlock.”

“The world is full of death and horror. Children are always so _disappointed_ when they discover life’s not a picnic. But if Rosie were to know that now, if she could be spared that disappointment...isn’t that kinder?”

John scoffed. “After all this time, _still_ no concept of what ‘kind’ means. Rosie deserves her innocence.” The two men stood chest to chest. It was their first time discovering a discordance in their relationship and both were finding it jarring. Sherlock had never experienced such a feeling before. He wanted to kiss John but he also wanted to kick him.

“It is illogical, John, to protest. She’ll figure it out.”

“Yes. And so what? Why shouldn’t she be allowed to just have a couple of years without death, and horror, and whatnot?”

Icy silence. Sherlock picked up a newspaper lying next to him and began flipping through it too rapidly for him to read anything. “Oh that’s childish, Sherlock. That may have worked when we were roommates, but you do realize that we’re raising an actual human baby, right? It’s serious. It’s not just another one of your clients that you can yell at and send out with a cuff to the head. Sherlock! Are you listening to me?” John could feel his voice becoming strained with anger as the lean figure seated in the armchair continued slamming through newspaper after newspaper. Out of fear that his hysterics would wake the baby, John grabbed his coat and rushed out of the apartment. _How perfectly typical._ Sherlock was incapable of doing anything normal, and even if he was, he would never grant John that satisfaction.

With a shout of frustration, Sherlock threw the newspaper at the wall, where it spattered into pieces. Damn it all! Damn John and his pretentious “normal” parenting. What did _he_ know about anything? Guiltily, he compared his familial situation to John’s. They had never talked about it before, but Sherlock had deduced that John’s mother and father weren’t exactly...in the picture. After all, _neither_ of the Watsons showed up to John’s wedding, which would’ve confirmed at least some degree of parental affection. And combine that with John’s tendency towards violence, his sister’s alcoholism, and his hesitance to admit his feelings for Sherlock...and you have quite a broken family. A ferocious pain roared up in Sherlock’s heart and he strained to repress it.

“Sherlock.” John’s voice broke through Sherlock’s train of thought.

“What?”

“Please. I would just really prefer--I mean--if you didn’t do that from now on. I get it, I get it. Death and horror. But we’ve seen it and we’ve _had_ it in our lives. Shouldn’t you want to prolong her years _away_ from all that shit?”

All of Sherlock’s native pride came up in his throat and he wanted to snap back, _wanted_ so badly to prove that he was correct--that everything dies, and everyone you love dies, and one day, eventually, love itself will die too. He couldn’t. Didn’t. “Alright. If it really matters that much to you, have it your way,” he allowed. Why were people always so determined to lie? Politicians lied and fathers lied and people lied to themselves. Maybe it wasn’t about lying, though. He thought about Rosie’s golden curls, her tiny hands. He would murder the first person to lay a hand on her. If John truly believed that his way would allow her to be healthy and happy…then perhaps he could learn to live with it.

“What age can she start?”

“Hm?”

“John. Please attend the conversation. What age can she start going on cases?

“For the love of--”

 


	10. CHAPTER TEN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A teacher asks out Sherlock and he gets all angsty about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, okay. So I made you wait. But we're at chapter 10!! Amazing! Thanks for sticking with it. Excited to read comments <3.

“All ready to go?” Sherlock asked, not lifting his eyes from his phone. “Yup!” said Rosie. She retrieved her coat and backpack out of her cubby and looked adoringly up at him as he aggressively texted Lestrade.  _ No, obviously, how could it _ \--“Alright then.” Before they could step out of the classroom, a bright-looking woman touched his arm. “Could I talk to you? Just for second?” Sherlock slipped the phone in his pocket and gestured that Rosie should walk out of the classroom alone. He was running late for a case, and he wasn’t happy about being held back. “Yes? I’m sort of in a hurry, so could you make it quick?” Sherlock said with his trademark brusqueness. 

“Right. Of course. I know you’re very busy, what with your  _ detecting _ and all.” The way she stressed the word “detecting” irritated Sherlock to no end. “I am. So if you would kindly get to the point…” She shook her head and straightened her cardigan. “Yes, yes. Sorry. I was wondering if you would like to go out sometime. To a pub, or something.” Her bright brown eyes flicked up to meet his and she held his gaze with a boldness that was unnerving to someone who was used to women cowering before him. “What for?” Sherlock responded. He didn’t take kindly to being held hostage at Rosie’s school. The smell was unfortunate and the color scheme was abominable. 

“As a date. You know, where two people who like each other go out and have fun?” 

“Oh.  _ That. _ No, absolutely not. Far too busy. And that would be far too boring.”

The woman looked angry. She fixed him again with her unnerving stare. “So this meant nothing to you?” At this point, she was really pushing her luck. “Please be specific.  _ What  _ meant nothing to me?” Sherlock snarled irritably. 

“You flirting with me!”

Sherlock was so stunned that he forgot to be annoyed. Is that why he had so much trouble with women? Why did they always think he was flirting with them? “How palpably stupid you are.” The words tasted sour on his tongue. As if he could possibly look at,  _ think  _ of, anyone else than John. With that, he turned sharply on his heel and banged out the door, leaving the teacher fuming. Rosie took Sherlock’s slender hand as they turned down the corridor, his other hand occupied with the phone.

_ Going to be back later than anticipated. - _ SH

_ No problem. Having tea with John.  _ -GL

_ Teacher kept me back. Tell John that Rosie shouldn’t go to school where the teachers cannot form a coherent thought. Horrifyingly idiotic woman.  _ -SH

_ Yeah, he says he hoped you haven’t fucked up anything.  _ -GL

_ Me? When have I ever?  _ -SH 

“Baker Street.” Sherlock mumbled to the taxi driver. Rosie bounced quietly in the seat next to him. Since she had known Sherlock pretty much her entire life, his mood swings and sudden bouts of extreme silence never bothered her, and she was used to letting him have his time to think. It was odd. Many women had approached Sherlock in the past, but it had never irritated him until the teacher.  It bothered him the whole way home, even as his headed up the stairs and into their living room, where a cheerful looking Lestrade was sipping tea and listening to Mrs. Hudson wax poetic about the crazy weather. John appeared at the mouth of the hallway and gave them both a wave before crossing the room and giving Rosie a hug. “Hello! How was your day?” he asked. She shrugged. “Boring.” John shot Sherlock a look that said  _ This is definitely  _ your  _ bad influence and you know it _ . But when he noticed how unfocused Sherlock’s eyes were, he led Rosie gently away and sent her to the kitchen to eat something. 

“What happened at the school? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Nothing,” answered Sherlock sharply. “Let’s get on with the case.’ 

“Sherlock--”

“I said  _ nothing _ . I’ve held you up enough so  _ please  _ proceed.” 

Like an injured bunny, Lestrade withdrew some folders from his briefcase and set them on the table so that the glossy headshots were facing in Sherlock’s direction. “It’s sort of a funny one. A murder. We think the poor guy was trespassing when he got slashed to bits. Funny thing is that there were only  _ housekeepers  _ there at the time...and a man who never gets out of bed. He has some sort of ailment that prevents him from being very mobile, so of course, we crossed him off the suspect list right away. The man with the disease also smokes an atrocious amount of cigarettes...you should smell the place, it’s like a fucking tobacco farm,” Lestrade concluded, on a somewhat wistful note. The nicotine patches on Sherlock’s skin itched. John folded his arms, brow furrowed in thought. “Did the housekeepers hear it happen? The slashing, I mean?” Lestrade nodded. “They claim…” Lestrade squinted laboriously at his small notebook, “all they heard were some footsteps, a tussle, and then a high-pitched scream. That’s some Edgar Allen Poe shit, right there.” 

“Edgar Allen Poe, indeed. An ingenious crime. Where were the footmarks?”

“The footmarks?

“Certainly, after so many tiresome years, you have learnt my patterns? No? I understand your incapacity in regard to the criminal classes, but in regard to me, the sole object of your focus for such an extended period of time...it’s truly  _ baffling  _ that you would think I wouldn’t ask after the footmarks.”

There was a silence. “What is going on with you? You’re not usually this...unpleasant after you pick Rosie up from school. Did she misbehave? What happened?” An uncomfortable red feeling started heating up Sherlock’s throat and he looked away. It was humiliating for him to feel so much in front of Lestrade, and Lestrade knew it. As politely as he could, he averted his eyes, and busied himself with his phone. “Yes. Something did happen. And if you’re going to be so insistent about it,” Sherlock said snappishly, “I suppose everything will move along quicker if I just tell you. Rosie’s teacher...asked me on a date.” Lestrade’s phone was returned to its pocket in the briefcase. This was too good to miss. John smiled comfortably. “And what’s the matter with that?” He was rather enjoying Sherlock’s discomfort. John knew his partner was too deeply oriented to even  _ consider  _ a woman so it amused him that Sherlock was so upset about something that John found to be humorous rather than threatening. “You didn’t say yes, did you?” Lestrade said, paling as soon as he realized that words had popped out of his mouth. Sherlock shot him a look that could kill. “Really, Lestrade? This level of stupidity is borderline offensive.” He shook his head, curls bobbling in that way John found so endearing. “Of course not. But it’s just curious how women always assume I’m interested in them...even just a  _ little _ ...explain to me--” The thin, tapered fingers went up to his chest in a gesture of half-mock anguish “--what is it that I do that gives women such ideas?”

“Well I’ll fucking be. He doesn’t know, does he?” Lestrade said incredulously. John shook his head. “No clue. You can tell him. If you want. Might go to his head pretty quickly though.” He gave Lestrade a nudge with his elbow. “Tell him. It’ll be hilarious.” 

“Sherlock, you’re pretty, okay? Every woman from here to China thinks so. You...and your cheekbones...turning up your coat collar so you look cool…Goddamit, you’re  _ pretty  _ okay, and women like that.”

“What do you mean by pretty? What the hell does that mean?”

“Broodingly handsome? Dickishly mysterious? A modern Heathcliffe?” John offered from his armchair.

“I have a perfectly  _ normal  _ face.” As if to affirm this fact, Sherlock looked at himself in the mirror hanging over their mantelpiece. The eyes, the nose, the lips...he could discern nothing particularly attractive about his appearance, nor remotely out of the ordinary. His face was his face and if it had been any other face nothing would be different. Or would it? 

“It’s a pretty face, okay? It’s so pretty I want to slap it off of you,” Lestrade said gruffly, looking down at his knuckles as though seriously considering it. The three men stood in the wake of this new discovery. Sherlock had never thought he was ugly, but he never thought he was good-looking either. Frankly, it was rather disconcerting. “That’s...fascinating.” He could think of no other thing to say. “Are you alright, then? Did we answer your question?” 

“Yes...but that’s not what my chief concern was.”

“You’re amused. Why?”

“Because you thought I would be mad at you,” John said tenderly. Lestrade shifted uncomfortably in his chair, wondering how his life came to revolve around two other middle-aged men and their dirty old flat. It was not only appalling but extremely unprecedented. “Shouldn’t you be? Isn’t that what  _ normal  _ people do?” Sherlock replied, sarcastically stressing the word “normal.” John shook his head. “No. Not if they trust each other.” 

“You want the details of the case, or not?” Lestrade broke in.

Appeased, Sherlock nodded. “Speak.”


End file.
